THE PALM GROVE AT ELCHE

A few new images taken in the palm groves of Elche, Alicante. This place is very special and a little slice of North Africa in Spain. The only place in Europe where dates are still harvested using traditional methods…

Valencia: Corpus Christi, June 2017

In June, for the third time for this project, I crossed Spain and found myself once again in Valencia. This time it was to see the famed Corpus Christi celebrations there on the 19th.  The goal was to find some of the characters that populate Sorolla's canvas from that region. I wasn't disappointed...

Couples on Horseback, Joaquin Sorolla, 1916

Couples on Horseback, Joaquin Sorolla, 1916

ZARAGOZA: A DANCE IN THE PARK

This summer I headed to Zaragoza in the Spanish province of Aragon to photograph a traditional Jota dance for the Sorolla project. Many thanks to Juan Carlos Serrano and his group, Semblante Aragonés, for organizing what was a fantastic spectacle and experience...

La Jota, Joaquin Sorolla, 1914

Genesis of an idea

It had begun, like most things, with a spark and completely by accident. For reasons unknown to myself I'd fallen into a job teaching the History of Spanish Art to American students on Erasmus programmes at the University of Cantabria in Santander. Having never taught the subject before I'd had just a week to prepare the course based on a one-sided A4 sheet briefly outlining each unit and which artists to be discussed. And there he was in unit 10 "Spanish Art in the 20th century" a name I'd never heard; Joaquin Sorolla. He was listed alongside two giants in the history of art; Salvador Dali and Pablo Picasso, familiar to millions whose work was known to those with even a fleeting interest in the subject but who was this third man of seemingly equal standing as these titans of art? Over the course of the following week, and after more visits to Wikipedia than I thought humanly possible, I'd cobbled together a passable syllabus and my obsession with Sorolla had begun.

This obsession was fuelled in great part by the curious discovery that he had undertaken an epic 8-year journey around Spain creating a history of the country recorded in oils entitled 'A Vision of Spain'. My imagination ran wild. As a tenuous excuse to travel around a country I loved maybe I could embark upon the same journey 100 years on? I bought a map and began earnestly marking out locations, names and dates to put things into context. This might just work as an investigation into a people and culture. How much had Spain changed in a century? Greatly, I hazarded a guess, but in many ways maybe it hadn't. I needed to find out. An idea was born and I felt destined to see it to completion.

To put things into context, 'A Vision of Spain' was born shortly after Spanish impressionist painter Joaquin Sorolla had had his first, and hugely successful, one-man exhibition in America at the Hispanic Society in New York in 1909 (a show which drew an incredible 168,000 viewers). In 1910 he met with the Society's curator, Archer Milton Huntingdon, in Paris to discuss a commission. By the spring of following year he had accepted the project and the final contract was signed in Paris a few months later on 26th November 1911. This project was to be a huge undertaking for the 48 year-old artist and would occupy the lion's share of his final decade as a painter.

Self-portrait of Sorolla from 1909

For 'A Vision of Spain' Huntingdon had envisaged a grand exposition of Spanish culture, its landscapes, traditions and its people and costumes to be exhibited in a newly, and specifically, constructed room at the Hispanic Society. They eventually decided upon a series of paintings of the provinces of Spain where Sorolla himself would select specific locations, subjects and details. Over the next 8 years the project would take over Sorolla's life as first he scouted locations and then travelled to them with all his artist's paraphernalia; no easy task in the early part of the 20th century when many villages and towns were still isolated from paved roads and train lines.

Sorolla liked to paint en plein air, surrounded by the ever changing light that would lend his paintings a real sense of place. Any given environment infusing itself inextricably within the canvas. Logistically this was a nightmare and extremely weather dependent. The paintings themselves were also enormous measuring 3.5 metres in height and up to almost 14 metres in length meaning that special easels had to be constructed to hold them. Models were hired to feature in the paintings which meant further organisational difficulties too. I would have none of these logistical difficulties as I was setting out with just a camera and a notebook but I wanted to capture this same sense of place as Sorolla had done 100 years previously and I knew it wasn't going to be all plain sailing...

On the road with Sorolla: Seville April 2013 Part 2, Fería

Seville, mid-April. After an aborted trip in March for the Easter week celebrations due to a particularly bad bout of flu I'd opted for the consolation prize of the 'Fería de abril', the city's wild and exuberant week-long party and, in its colour, vibrancy, song and dance, the complete antithesis to the somber and austere Semana Santa processions.

The location for the Fería was a vast area the size of a small town which for the other 51 weeks of the year must look a bit unloved and neglected. This week, however, was different and over the next couple of hours I was to witness an unrivalled spectacle of Andalusian opulence. It was 7pm by the time I'd crossed the lazy Gaudalquiver river and made the half hour walk across the old gypsy neighbourhood of Triana to the outskirts of the city. The heat was really soporific now and I was down to a t-shirt and wishing I'd packed some shorts.  On turning a final corner a huge gateway emblazoned with thousands of coloured light-bulbs towered above me, it was truly enormous. I stopped to load my cameras with film and take a breath, my heart racing. Then I dived in to forget myself in the deep end of the infinity pool of Spanish cultural delights.

Las Casetas

They say you can only really find out who you are by taking yourself out of your natural environment, your habitual habitat, and putting yourself amongst the exotic. It is impossible to measure yourself against familiarity, your surroundings and you are one and the same; a symbiosis brought about by years of routine. Take a sheep from his flock and stick him with a herd of cows and suddenly he realizes he's a sheep, he's different. This is something I've often thought about on my various travels around the world but never had this been more true than now.

As well as a huge fairground with rides and attractions, the Fería is made up of more than a thousand casetas, tent-like structures of about 30m2 serving as private gathering spaces for local families and businesses to eat, drink and dance. As I walked through the rows and rows of these private parties I felt a growing shame at my Anglo Saxon reservedness and an acute awareness of my inadequacies and abilities to let go and have fun. I was an outsider catching fleeting glimpses from the corner of my eye of a thousand moments I could never experience however much I desired it. It was wholeheartedly uplifting as well as a deft blow to my yearning to be part of something.

The next generation...

Men, women and children rode about on horseback, both beast and rider dressed in their traditional finery. Manzanilla or sherry was sipped from delicate, long-stemmed, glasses both on and off the horses by men in wide-brimmed Cordoban hats. Tight-fitting feminine dresses of all designs and colours were paraded around by dark-haired and impossibly beautiful women with flowers in their hair and horse-drawn carts carrying whole families trotted past on their way to meet friends. A timeless old, low light lit the scene adding an air of otherworldliness to the spectacle and I wandered blissfully around not wanting the moment to end.


On the road with Sorolla: Seville April 2013 Part 1

The heat had taken me by surprise. I was wrapped up in at least two too many layers and sweat was now creating its own river system inside my clothes. I'd known it was going to be warmer, of course, but I hadn't been expecting this.

I'd flown in from Cantabria on a morning flight and the temperature was climbing steadily touching 30c by the time I was wandering over the town in search of my hostel. Seville is like an ambush on the senses; heat aside, the city creeps up and snatches you away from your perceived normality. All five senses are needed in equal measure to truly appreciate it and it is impossible to wriggle free from its grasp. Sorolla loved Seville and felt this allure keenly. He painted no fewer than four of the fourteen paintings in the Vision of Spain series in or around the city. Within an hour of landing I too shared his enthusiasm for the place; it was impossible not to.

La Giralda

I skirted around the Giralda, Seville's exotic minaret built by the Moors in the 12th century and subsequently re-appropriated by the Spanish Christians into a unique bell-tower for the second largest cathedral in all Christendom, and took a narrow side street up and around to my digs, a modest backpackers' hostel set in a wonderful 500 year old Jewish house which formed part of the 'Barrio Santa Cruz'. Balconies on three levels rose above a typical Andaluz interior patio and up top there was a two-tier roof terrace giving a sea-of-terracotta-tile view in all directions punctuated by the Giralda and other, lesser, church spires. It wasn't quite the 5-star Grand Hotel de Paris in which Sorolla had installed himself on his visits here but my top bunk in an 8-bed mixed dorm would do just fine. I freshened up, namely peeled off a few layers, and headed into the maze of cobbled streets that surrounded the hostel. I had things to do, places to find and some detective work to do. There wasn't a minute to lose...

Hot: just a typical April day in the Andalusian capital

In the spring of 1915, Sorolla was already on his third, and final, trip to the Andalusian capital as part of the Vision of Spain series. Having already painted the Easter processions in the 'Holy Week Penitents' as well as a more rural scene of horseman driving fighting bulls in the surrounding countryside in 'The Round-up', both in 1914, the artist was back in Seville to paint another two canvases, this time to depict a more cultural side to Spain in the form of Flamenco and Bullfighting. 100 years later and now here I was immersing myself in these two titans of Spanish identity. Was it all just a gimmicky, soulless and plastic facade designed to perpetuate the stereotypes and myths of a Spain viewed from the outside (and to generate more than a few tourist euros) or was there something more real, more tangible, to be grasped onto here? I needed to find out more and headed straight to Sevilla's bullring, 'La Maestranza'.

La Maestranza is widely considered to be the most important bullring in the world and certainly its oldest. The bullfighting season traditionally begins here on Easter day and the daily fights over the next week would form the first major event in the tauromachia calendar. I had a ticket for the following day's event but I wanted to get a feel for the place; I circled the building and then installed myself at the back entrance, otherwise known as 'puerta 16'. Barriers had been placed either side of it and I squeezed my way to the front. The Policía local were there to act as bodyguards and every now and then the thick red wooden gates opened and an important looking person would be allowed to enter. Stood as I was right next to these gates I was given a tantalizing glimpse into the backstage world of bullfighting.

'Puerta 16'

This was real. Standing there for the best part of an hour as the crowd grew it struck me just how similar this was to being backstage at a rock concert, waiting for your favourite band or musician to waltz past and perhaps get their autograph or a photo with them. When the Matadors and their entourage finally arrived there was a definite aura of the rich and famous about them. Phones snapped away, immortalizing the moment, women shouted 'hola guapo!' and suited men with slicked-back oiled hair looked on in a haze of pride whilst the bullfighters purposely and self-confidently strode past and out of sight through the heavy wooden doors and into the bowels of Seville's great bullring. I would be back tomorrow and, with the rest of the local crowd, wandered off in the general direction of the Fería, the epicentre of the celebrations.